


If I Believed in Wishes,

by keep_me_alone



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Lmao i hope this hurts yall as much as it hurt me, Suffering, This isnt quiiite how i want it but idk, also pls dont criticize me ill cry, episode tag s03e09, i dont know why i wrote this other than i guess i love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_me_alone/pseuds/keep_me_alone
Summary: Missing scene at the end of The Crossing





	If I Believed in Wishes,

**Author's Note:**

> "Science says you're dead and gone forever. Reason says I'm talking to the air."

The ground was wet with blood. John didn't know how much was his and how much was from Joss. A lot, he thought, a lot, a lot, a lot. So he held her. Just held her because he didn't know what to say here, at the end of all things. He could feel her slipping away, and was helpless in the face of her death. John said her name, begged her to stay with him. He knew she couldn't. In the instant it had taken him to get to her, he'd known. 

And then she'd gone still in a way he had known so many times but never so intimately. The world slipped away from him as his grief engulfed him, chewed him up and spat him out. Everything he touched turned to ash. 

Ten thousand miles away a phone was ringing with no one to answer.

***

Finch was frozen. The phone had rung. He hadn't picked it up. Joss had died and John was dying too. He didn't know whether his perfect, terrible machine had been too late, or if he had. He didn't know what to do. Joss was dead. John was dying. The gears of his mind spun against each other in a million different directions. A mind capable of inflitrating government systems, and it was all ground to a halt by simple, base violence.

A part of his brain was prompting him to call John. John was supposed to deal with things like this, not Harold. He badly wanted to. He couldn't call John. 

Harold didn't know how long he stood there. The phone was still ringing. He was too late. This was never supposed to happen. Harold's head was filled with dead static, but John could still be helped. He had to. 

Harold limped the rest of the way up the street to where his friends lay. One motionless, limp, the other whose howling had broken the night.

***

The first time Finch said his name, John only registered it as noise. Wondered if he was about to die, and didn't care. 

"John," and that was really Harold, his voice unbearably soft. Whatever threads were holding John together dissolved. His head tipped forward against Joss. Her body. "John, we have to go." 

Gingerly, Finch reached out, laid a trembling hand on John's shoulder. John didn't respond. He didn't flinch, didn't tense. There was nothing. Finch was at a loss. John hadn't reacted to the touch, which was both good and bad, but Finch wasn't sure his luck would hold if he tried to get him away from Joss. The state John was in, he could accidentally hurt Harold, and Harold had no illisions even now about how badly John could injure him. He needed backup. So he called for some.

"Miss Shaw," she picked up her phone and he forgot how to speak for a moment. Breathless with relief.

"What's wrong?"

"John's been shot. Detective Carter," *Joss*, "Carter is dead." His voice sounded eerie and distant. He ignored Shaw's swearing, gave their location. "I don't know what to do." Somewhere in his brain a wire had frayed, a fuse had blown. 

"Find where John was shot. You need to get pressure on it."

"I c- I can't," Finch felt dizzy. He turned away from his friends, unable to look at them lying where they fell.

"If you don't want him to die, you will." Shaw snapped. 

"Yes of course," Finch mumbled. He hung up on her, hoping she'd be here soon. He turned back. John had slumped into unconsciousness. His grip on Joss had loosened enough that Harold could nudge them apart, though that was its own special nightmare. 

John was covered in blood. It was hot and sticky and the smell of it clung in Harold's nose, suffocating him. There was so much of it. Harold didn't know how anyone could possibly bleed that much and still live, but he could still see the shallow rise and fall of John's chest. It took him another desperate moment to locate the bullet holes. One at the shoulder. One near his hip. There was so much blood. 

Root had been right, John wasn't his first, but he'd never connected to any of the others this way. They'd done so much good. There was still so much good left to do. He could not die. Harold had known that this would happen. That they would both die violent deaths, but when it came down to it, he couldn't accept it. Not today. 

Harold removed his jacket and vest to put pressure on the wounds. The clothes were too bulky for this. It wasn't as though he could just cut them up either. He wondered, half delirious, why he wasn't carrying scissors. 

When Finch reached across John's body to lean on his side, John's eyes fluttered open, the pain bringing him around. 

"Harold?" His voice had a drunken quality to it.

"I'm here, John." 

"Joss..." he trailed off. 

"Don't worry about her now," Harold heard the shake in his voice, felt despair creeping in. "Just focus on me." 

John's glassy gaze slid over Harold's face. His hand weakly pushed against Harold's. "No," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry," Harold said, his voice threatening tears, "I know it hurts. Miss Shaw's on her way."

John bumped Harold's hand again, "No, more... more pressure." 

"Oh," Harold gasped, "of course." He leaned harder on John. John sucked in a breath, tried and failed to supress a pained noise. John considered, somewhat dizzily, whether he should have said anything. But Harold didn't deserve this death on his conscience too. 

Harold stayed with John for what felt like hours, leaning hard on his wounds. His arms burned, felt like they might give out, but he held on. 

Harold watched as John grew quieter and his mumbled responses made less and less sense until he stopped responding altogether. 

And then Shaw appeared in a blaze of headlights and squealing tires. She drove her van perilously close and leapt out.

"Move," she told Harold. He allowed himself to be pushed away as she took over. He watched her work for a moment, watched the unearthly stillness in John's face. "I think he's going to live," Shaw said finally, and Harold felt his knees fold under him. If Shaw said he would live, he would live.

Harold hated to leave Joss here, but there was nothing for it. John had to be the priority now.

It was time to call the doctor.


End file.
